The blog of a romance novelist and poet. Semi-nomadic between England and France, a curious curtsey to cuisine and country.

Wednesday, 25 February 2015

A Little Birdhouse In My Soul pic.twitter.com/XDLpb7RkGd

A ball of fluff against the cruel cuts of Nature

A couple of years ago I posted a blog here entitled "Are my tits out of proportion to my hole?" You cannot imagine the torrent of criticism that drowned my sensitive soul. The feature, which concerned the frustration of my empty nesting box, was reviled and despised by right minded people. Old friends and supporters turned away in disgust. I was forced to crawl away like the ugly duckling. The post went on to collect my biggest ever readership and topped the poll every day. Can you believe that pervy hornythologists search for such words on line? In the end I took it down out of shame and promised myself and the Devil that I would never ever use the T word again. Faust may have succumbed to an offer of knowledge and worldly pleasure but I am a chastened harlot. I am not the sort of big mamma mammal who would ever give suck to such conduct.So it is that I can report that the smallest of the T word species has arrived in my box. Better known as Periparus ater by you academic Latin speakers, the little soul has moved in to claim his home. At dusk he pops in and immediately fluffs up his feathers to conserve heat. He/she is a miracle of beauty and of life. I cannot find the words to tell you how blessed I feel that this vulnerable little creature is in some way in my care. Folk I pass in the street have hopes, loves, losses and regrets that I cannot touch or share. Yet - a wisp of a bird, that demanding weightless heaviness of life itself - that flight and gravity of the universal soul, has come at last. Fragile bird - you carry the burden of my kisses and hopes. Emma Thinx: Only love gives you the weight to fly.